A previously used harmonica effortlessly glides across the horizon of a man's facade. The off-duty pilot focuses his mind upon walkin', spittin' and talkin' in a language that was neither English nor Japanese. The pilot has a name, and Spike was speaking the blues.
Children, the language of the blues consists of nary a word or a syllable. Even those born mute have spake for centuries in the rhytmic language. Many mute hands across time have grasped the farthest away pages of the blues dictionary with as much ease as any man could. Spike is not a mute, except that Spike is currently in the floating in the vacuum of space. In space, every sound submits to the will of the tired old cosmos. All that stands between Spike and the life of a mute is the walls of the rusty cage he travels in.
Tired old cage, allower of the blues, bare witness to the art of your passenger. He sings of thee in that wordless language. His art tributes the easel that holds up the very same canvas which holds the art. The harmonica is that canvas, or rather a piece of it. The rhythmic stomp of Spike's feet echoing through the rusty floor is just as much a piece of the art, and so the easel is just as much a piece of the same canvas it supports.
Without this ship, Spike's breath would cease. To carelessly blow his every breath away so suddenly is indeed an odd way of thanking the art, the easel, and the canvas for giving oxygen to the artist. Such is the way of the artist, however. Spike must squander away the gift, for the sake of appreciating it. The song without a living audience might as well be muted, yet futility never stops the spark of creation.
Spike understands the delicacy of his situation. This rusty cage does its job well and has earned retirement at a moment's notice. As soon as one rusty wall gives, the whole interior including Spike will jettison and become mute. The blues comforts its speaker as much as it honors its subject. Acknowledging the thin veil seperating him from death, Spike's nerves impart character into his vibrato of his notes. Music sounds proudly through the halls of the rusty cage, notes so luscious you would swear even the vacuum might enjoy them.